


Market Day

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: And one novel length one, Crushes, Fanletters, Gen, POV Outsider, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 19:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: Much of the reason Lord Vetinari stays in power is because more than half the Disc has a crush on him.





	Market Day

 

There was always a certain pleasure in arranging the potatoes and turnips _just so_ before dawn on a quiet Sunday morning. The farmer had been doing that ever since his father had first taken him to Ankh-Morpork to sell his own produce, over thirty years ago. The city had been grubbier then and you’d always been glad to get away from the shadowy alleys and back to the farm. His hands kept stacking the vegetables as he looked around the market, at the still steaming cheese-stuffed bread that was being handed over and the stew that was being ladled into tin cups for the first customers.

The jars of raspberry and blueberry jam gleamed in the first rays of the sun as the mail coaches sped past. The water that splashed against his dusty boots was as close to clean as it could be in the big city.

The farmer kept his eyes down, fiddling with the jars of pickled radishes as if to check if they weren’t broken. He’d sent a letter of…admiration to Lord Vetinari, a few years back after his husband had been gifted a variety of stamps from his sister who lived in the city. They had framed the little stamp depicting his lordship and explained who the Patrician was to every child who made even the smallest inquiring sound at the sight of the little stamp in a frame beside his husband’s painting of the river goddess he worshipped.

It had been a simple letter, noting how much better the city worked as seen from an outsider’s perspective and how well business was going as a result.

His husband had not laughed or been annoyed at this enthusiastic crush on such a well-known man.

Instead he’d read the letter and put stamps on the envelope. After all, the lord was a very competent and good looking fellow, they’d agreed. The letter was sent back, even if it had been anonymous and Harold had put it away at the bottom of his trunk. Still there was the possibility that his lordship might have read it, and the knowledge that he might have done so was both deeply satisfying and highly embarrassing.

Well, there was no time to lose. Better get his own shopping done before he’d started selling everyone his own produce. It saved time and he’d always get the best things that way.

“Rosalind, would you like this jar of blueberry jam for a tin of Jolly Sailor?” he asked the lady approaching him with a basketful of tins and a determined expression.

“How many jars will you give me for this whole basket, Harold?” she asked. “Do you know how many jam rolls the wizards asked us to deliver to the University by noon?”

“I’ll just bring all the jars to your table,” the farmer said, bending down to pick up a box of jam jars he’d put behind his table. When he looked up, a black coach was going past. And the figure in the coach looked very familiar.

For a long moment, the entire market stopped in its tracks. Except for a tall, well-dressed man in black, who tipped his fancy hat to Vetinari and kept on walking his dogs.  Knives lingered in mid-air, crabs stopped trying to pinch everything and people held their breaths.

“Now there goes a man who knows exactly what he’s doing,” the famer said before he could stop himself, aware of how smitten he just sounded. The blush descended on him like a storm.

“Yes,” Rosalind said, sighing in a way that was decidedly dreamy and picking up another box of jam jars. “Our wife just finished her training as a master butcher and his lordship comes in her shop every month himself to buy steak for his little dog. Moves like a dream, she says.”

“Hm,” Harold said, taking a pinch of snuff and delicately placing it on the back of his hand. “You know, I’ve just read this romance novel whose love interest bears quite a resemblance to a certain man.”

“I suspect half the city owns that novel,” Rosalind said. “Stashed under beds and so on.”

“That sounds just right,” Harold said, inspecting his snuff. “It is a literary masterpiece, after all.”

Half the people at the market appeared to nod at this remark, before remembering what they’d been up to and springing back into action. Harold and Rosalind kept on carrying jam jars to her table as the sun rose.

 

 


End file.
